Still birth mother Scripts reek the despration of her mournful frame proud with waste Chin raging against the gentle breeze. Edges that inspire weakness Relics of home Pundits wail, but won't touch. I'll praise and Sure, yeah, yes. Whatever you like. And oh... yeah, that's good. Just like that. I think I love you. There are no others worthy. Christ, not a soul. But you here, broken, mend me. Hate for forgiving swallows her tears gifts of loss chewed by the hungry all frenzied to one feeding beast gorging on swollen misapplication.
